Man, Miki, I want to retroactively hug all the way back to before you were all like "huh pregnant? Could be fun." A nightmare, no matter what time of year.

I want to like holidays. But they tend to let me down. Nothing disastrous, worthy of a story, other than my parents used to get into epic fights that would roll well into January, sometimes to their anniversary in February - which made birthdays in between ever so special. I dunno. People get so heated up for MAKING a holiday special the specialness of the holiday gets ground under sometimes. Some yummy things to eat & drink, exchanging tokens of affection, peace on earth, you know...I don't ask for much.

@razrangel agreed entirely. I feel like I get worked up because it's supposed to be such a SPECIAL day that if even the slightest thing goes wrong then it just has such a Big Deal connotation to it where on any other day I would just pout for a minute before being distracted by the other awesome things going on. Which is not to belittle actual tragedies, but there's a significant difference in 'death in the family' and 'other people had plans before my last minute party and they won't change them for me'. I hate when I catch myself being petty in the name of .

This feeling extends to birthdays & Valentines & just about all holidays. It was one of my favourite things of the past 7 years, getting to celebrate my boyfriend's birthday instead of Valentine's day (same day) so that we just couldn't feel bad if people didn't make it out but we got give an awesome gift of friendship and fun to all of our friends who did make it out. This year is going to be so weird...

Generally I love the holidays, but there is one bit that's less than pleasant.

I have a brother who has a form of early onset dementia. He stopped functioning like normal in his early twenties, and after a few years of struggling with this and trying to find some way to help, my parents decided that the best thing would to have him permanently committed to a hospital. They've been unwilling to accept the diagnosis, and wanted him to be somewhere he could get more tests and treatment.

Anyway, every year on Christmas Eve we go to visit him in the hospital and try to have a good time. Often we go to the most exotic restaurant we can find open at the time (slim pickings in Provo, Utah). Then he tries to run away or do some other similar thing. After he's opened presents (some of which he throws back at us because they are unacceptable), we head home. The night ends with at least my mom in tears, and the rest of us just not knowing what to do.

I know it's not really my brother, but this disease that's consumed him that makes things so difficult, but...

This year, he said he wanted to come home for Christmas. My mom said he was sounding better on the phone. I'm not really looking forward to this.

I think i was nineteen at the time,addicted to heroin,broke and homeless.The public transport was stopping around five p.m on Christmas Eve where i "lived" in the north of England and the weather was cold as hell.Basically i was fucked.

This was in the eighties and there was a lot of smack coming in from Iran.My ex-girlfriend was having a relationship with a Iranian guy who had smuggled in a substantial amount and i somehow managed to worm my way into his good books to get some on credit.My plan was to deal most of it and have enough to keep me well for a few days.Having done this i needed somewhere to have a fix and sort the crap out into different sized deals.It was getting close to five and the only place i could think of going to was a mate's flat a few miles outside of Newcastle.He was in rehab and i had some way to get inside his place.

So i jumped the last train and travelled to a really rough council estate.All grey,foul buildings that no-one in their right mind would want to occupy.And it was dead.Not a soul in site and the streets where iced-up.I'd shoplifted a box of Complan food-drink which was my xmas scran for the next few days.Complan and water...

Anyhow,sometime into xmas day evening, i'd done in most of the smack and next thing i knew the Iranian guy and some other mean bastard where banging on the door looking for me.I skulked in the bedroom shitting myself.Eventually they left and i thought i'd treat myself to yet another fix.

Oh no...some dust,grime or whatever had found it's way into the syringe and i had what is called a dirty hit.Your head explodes with pain.You start shaking feeling like your going to die.I ended up in a chair watching Some Like it Hot on a black and white portable t.v.Boxing day came.No money.No smack.No transport.I was getting sick and walked about nine miles.I went to this house and who was there?The Iranian guy's mad friend who politely informed me i had a few days to pay up.Somehow i managed to.Fuck knows how.Everyone left the house leaving me in my misery.Around twelve at night i crawled to a dealers flat and begged a fiver's worth of gear.